And He Never Will
by hamsterpickle1313
Summary: Martha reflects. Songfic for "I'm Not That Girl" from Wicked.


**Title: And He Never Will**

**Timeframe: End of Season 3**

**Characters: Martha, Ten**

**Summary: Martha reflects. Essentially just another angsty one-shot.**

**Disclaimer: Lyrics from Wicked (Steven Schwartz), Doctor Who is obviously not mine **

* * *

_Hands touch; eyes meet  
__Sudden silence; sudden heat  
__Hearts leap in a giddy whirl  
__He could be that boy  
__But I'm not that girl._

He's a legend come to life, an angel come to avenge a fallen star.

But he's not immortal.

He has no idea, but Martha can see. She sees everything with the only eyes able to comprehend absolute truth; those which are both brilliant and unloved.

She sees his hair, windswept and sticking up in every direction. When he's frustrated or confused, he messes it up even more, as if having sticky-uppy hair will allow him to more clearly see a solution. Sometimes, she longs to reach out, test its softness for herself as she buries her face in the nape of his neck and snuggles into his comforting embrace. But she never has.

She never will.

She sees the way his hands, perfectly manicured—although he'll never admit it—caress the TARDIS console. He runs his fingers over each knob and gadget and smiles softly as if to a secret lover. Sometimes, Martha wishes he'd run his hands over _her_ with such tenderness, as if she were the most beautiful thing in all of creation, but he never has.

He never will.

Their touches are friendly hugs, a joking peck on the cheek, a supporting shoulder, all under her careful banner of "I only go for humans."

Her mortality stands between them like a cement wall, but his mortality stands between them like the Medusa Cascade.

_Don't dream too far  
__Don't lose sight of who you are  
__Don't remember that rush of joy  
__He could be that boy  
__I'm not that girl._

She sees, too, the dark obsidian lurking in the depths of his warm eyes. The Oncoming Storm can barely be restrained by his aura of childlike glee.

But how could a mere human like Martha Jones hope to understand the loneliness of a God?

God cries sometimes, although he'll never admit that, either. She turns away when she sees him angrily brush a diamond tear from his freckled cheek. She smiles for the both of them to hide a pained gasp which sometimes escapes from a forgotten memory.

It's all she can do; she just wishes it were enough. But it never is.

It never will be.

_Every so often we long to steal  
__To land of what might have been  
__But that doesn't soften  
__The ache we feel  
__When reality sets back in._

Reality.

This isn't reality.

Reality is the exhilaration of _Mom, I'm accepted to medical school_, the glittering view of London's dirty, sprawling streets from the window of her flat, the sweet satisfaction of flopping into bed at night knowing _that patient will live_.

Reality is not _him,_ with his childish grin that hides so much pain, the purr of the TARDIS late at night, the strange thrill of running, always running. The uncomfortable, bitter stasis of life trapped in a police box that shouldn't exist.

Who is she kidding? Martha Jones is living in a world of "might have been."

And somehow, despite all the tiny decisions which could have sent her life careening in another direction entirely, she can't help feeling like this is what was meant to be.

It was always how her life was going to end up.

But that doesn't make it hurt any less.

Their mutual prison: it's killing her. The constant cycle of cycle of joy, confusion, and heartbreaking insignificance eats at her soul when he looks at her with accusation in his eyes because she's not _his _companion. Not really.

_Blithe smile; lithe limb  
__She is winsome; she wins him  
__gold hair with a gentle curl  
__That's the girl he chose  
__And heaven knows  
__I'm not that girl._

Martha can tell from the way he caresses his teeth when he's remembered. The R gets stuck, held in his mouth like a piece of sugar candy he doesn't want to let go lest it lose its flavor.

He tries to hide it of course. Tries to hide the way he flinches when, eyes glistening, he realizes he's been smiling at a ghost with bleach blonde hair.

She wishes he'd forget permanently and hates herself for it. Wishes he'd treat each syllable of _Martha Jones _as if it were the most precious thing in the universe. But he never has.

He never will.

_Don't wish; don't start  
__Wishing only wounds the heart  
__I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl  
__There's a girl I know  
__He loves her so  
__I'm not that girl._

But Rose Tyler—what did his love get her?

She stands forever abandoned on a beach in a different reality, burned by his incandescent destiny.

She faces a lifetime without him, their Fallen Angel who so many have loved but only she has understood.

He faces an eternity without her, his Angel who so many have wanted but only he has needed.

Forever is a long time.

Martha decides to get out before she, too, is burned.

But who can save him from burning himself?

Because someday he will. He'll run himself to death and he'll burn himself out.

She wonders if his pet supernova, trapped in its own static prison, will burn with him.

Yes, Martha's seen him, standing before his burning sun like a sinner awaiting divine judgment. Head tipped back, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, he even looks the part of a fallen angel standing at the gates to Heaven. Denied entrance, he sometimes makes a motion as if to throw himself in, but he never has.

Martha doesn't think he ever will.

She can read his lips as he reels back from oblivion.

"I don't want to go."


End file.
